“So the killer has some connection to your past?” Owen said. “Maybe it was a professional relationship that was also personal. Someone who visited your father at home.”
“Bill James came over,” I said. “And Momma said that Tripp Tucker used to come over for dinner. Apparently several of his other young, up-and-coming country music clients used to come over too. I don’t remember any of them, but I was also pretty young.”
“Did your father ever host dinners for other clients? Your mother was a caterer. It stands to reason he would invite people over to impress them with your mother’s cooking.”
“I don’t remember, but I can ask Tilly, Momma’s best friend. There’s something else too.” I held his gaze. “Daddy and Bill James had another partner in the beginning. Eric Duncan. Tilly told me that Daddy and Bill kicked him out of the business because he tried to rape Momma.”
“Did they file charges?”
“No. They decided to keep it quiet.” I paused. “And there’s one more thing—Eric’s son, Clint Duncan, hired Daddy as his financial consultant instead of using his own father. He was an up-and-coming country star, and Daddy handled his money. Tilly said he was one of the guys who came over too.”
Owen looked interested in that one. “So Eric could have been pissed at your father for stealing his son as well as his career. I’ll look into it.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “I also need to pull the names of the victims to try and figure out the connection—if there is one—to your father.”
I shuddered. “I don’t want to look at those photos again.”
“I’ll take care of that part, but after I look at them, we need to return them.”
I groaned. “Not it.”
“Brady and I aren’t getting along right now.”
“Neither are we, yet I sucked it up and got the file. You get to replace it. I found them in the bottom of his underwear drawer.”
He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t protest.
“So now what?” I asked.
“After we finish, I’ll take you back to your car and go through the files. You’ll go home, lock your doors, and hide.”
“That’s it?”
“What did you think you were gonna do? Go interview people with me? Your part is done now.”
“So I’m just supposed to sit around and wait?”
He gave me a look that suggested that was exactly what he expected me to do.
“I need to know what you’re doing, Owen. You’re going to look at the files, but why don’t I investigate the women too?”
He gave me a wary look. “What are you suggesting?”
“Look, it only makes sense for both of us to work on this. You can do the police detective stuff—”
“I’m on leave, Magnolia. I won’t be doing police detective stuff. Not officially.”
“Fine. If you want to get technical,” I said, “then you do the dangerous stuff, and I’ll do the desk stuff like internet searches.”
He considered my suggestion for several seconds. “That’s actually a good idea.”
I gave him a smug look. “I have a few.”
“I’ll take another look at the files and pull some names and other information for you.”
We were silent for a few moments while he ate his sandwich. I picked at my salad, my stomach a mess with nerves.
Owen pulled out the envelope. “If you’re done eating, I’ll pull that information from the files.”
I set my napkin on the table. “Yeah. Go ahead. I think I’ll go to the restroom while you have the photos out.”
I had no desire to ever see them again. I slipped out of my seat and headed to the hall behind Owen.
I took my time in the restroom, rolling my eyes when I checked out my appearance in the mirror. I looked rough, but I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I tried to take enough time to ensure Owen would be finished by the time I got back to the table.
When I walked out of the restroom, he heard the door squeak and turned around to glance at me. “Ready to go?”
“You’re finished?”
He stood and laid some cash on the table, then handed me a page from his notebook. “Their names and information.”
“Thanks.” I tucked into my purse and pulled out my wallet. “How much was my part of the bill?”
He waved me off. “Don’t worry about it. If you were a real informant, I’d pay you somehow. I got off easy with lunch.”
“Well . . . thanks.”
We headed out to his car, and I got in the backseat again. We were silent for most of the ride, but when Owen parked in the lot behind the catering business, he turned back to look at me. “I just can’t help thinking about the reason your father’s back. I think there’s something to the theory of the serial killer flushing him out, but why? Do you think he’s really back to collect an annuity?”
I stared at him, knowing something was off, but I couldn’t quite pick up on what. “Uh . . . I don’t know. He hasn’t tried to contact me, so I know that’s not his reason.”
He nodded. “Thanks for your help, Magnolia. Maybe you should get a burner phone too. Make it less likely anyone can tie us together.”
“Yeah,” I said absently. “Good idea. Thanks again, Owen.”
“Thank you. You’ve given me hope for the first time in years.”
I got out and watched him drive away, wishing I wasn’t feeling the exact opposite.
Chapter 17
Part of me wanted to drive straight to the airport and fly as far away from Franklin as I could get, farther than New York this time. Maybe I’d go to Vietnam, like Colt and I had discussed, and lie on those beautiful beaches, but I quickly dismissed the idea. It wouldn’t be the same without him . . . and he was still harboring secrets. Instead, I drove to Momma’s house and locked myself inside. Too bad it didn’t feel as safe as it had a month ago.
Then again, Tilly was right—I had secrets of my own. What if whatever had been in that safety deposit box had something to do with the woman Colt had loved and lost? The one who’d turned away from him after my father had arranged for his arrest. But how would Momma have found it?
I set up my laptop and started searching for the names on the list that contained limited information about each murder. I started with the case from twenty years ago—Stella Hargrove. The top reports were that her body had been found in Hendersonville, Tennessee. She’d been twenty-five, single, and a receptionist at a Baptist church. They’d suspected the church janitor for a short bit before ruling him out. Stella hadn’t had a boyfriend or enemies. The police had been stumped.
The next case was Margarie Turnwell, who’d been killed fourteen years ago. She was from Elizabethtown, Kentucky, and her body had been found a week after her disappearance. The news reports said her boyfriend had been a suspect, but he had an alibi and the police couldn’t arrest him. However, the family had been very vocal about their suspicions of him. She was an elementary school teacher, but she’d recently lost her job. The article didn’t say why, but it did have a quote from the boyfriend saying she’d gone to Nashville the week before to visit a friend and suggested something had happened there. The police said they had followed up his lead and found nothing.
The next case was Melanie, and I wondered why I’d never looked her up before. Because pretending she’d never really existed made it more tolerable somehow? Brady was right. She’d been a nurse at Vanderbilt, and her body had been found in Clarksville. News reports said the police had concentrated their efforts on finding a drifter who had supposedly been seen hanging around the hospital, but they’d never found him. Just like Tripp’s Tucker’s fiancée . . .
I wondered why no one had made a connection between the cases before given the distinctiveness of the cut, but the two close to Nashville had been a decade apart, and the one in Kentucky was far enough away to escape notice.
There was only one more name on the list—Amy’s. I didn’t bother looking up her information. I’d been searching
the internet about her death ever since Brady had confirmed she was one of the serial killer’s victims.
Except something was missing. When I’d first looked at the files in Brady’s bathroom, I’d seen a report for the murder seventeen years ago. Why wasn’t there any mention of it on Owen’s list?
Had Tiffany Kessler been the second serial killer victim after all? She and Amy and, to some degree, Emily had all been connected to people who’d been part of the Jackson Project.
I sent Owen a text to his burner, asking if there had been a file for seventeen years ago, but when he didn’t respond right away, I did a search for Tiffany Kessler. News reports about her murder popped up. The one detail I remembered from the report was that the body had been found outside of Jackson. Sure enough, Tiffany’s body had been found in Jackson, Tennessee, which was about one hundred and thirty miles west of Nashville.
Tiffany had been found outside of Jackson. The Jackson Project. The blood left my head, and I took a moment to let my equilibrium settle.
That couldn’t be a coincidence. I needed to talk to Tripp Tucker.
I searched his name in connection with Tiffany’s, and reports popped up from the time of the murder, saying that the country star was grieving the loss of his fiancée. He’d offered a reward to anyone who came forward with information about her abduction and murder. There were other reports from the Jackson, Tennessee, police department saying they were working with the Brentwood Police—where Tiffany had lived with Tripp—and while they had a few persons of interest, they weren’t releasing any names. My father’s name wasn’t in any of the reports, but with people like Ava around, his name had surely made its way into the rumor mill.
The drifter both Tilly and Ava had mentioned had been arrested two years later, after he was caught trying to pawn her engagement ring at a store in Nashville. His trial had lasted only a few days, and he’d been sentenced to life in prison with no parole.
I doubted that the internet would give me Tripp Tucker’s contact information, but I searched anyway, surprised to see that he was the guest of honor at a dinner in Brentwood tonight—a dinner I knew Southern Belles was catering.
It was time for me to dust off my waitress uniform. I was going back to work.
* * *
Tilly worked up a protest when I walked in through the back door of the catering kitchen wearing my serving uniform. Her mouth dropped open and she put a hand on her hip. “I thought you were taking the night off, so why on God’s green earth are you dressed up like a server?”
“If I stay in her house for five more minutes, I’m gonna go batshit crazy,” I said, walking past everyone to see what they were up to. It looked like they were about to load the vans.
“That still doesn’t explain the uniform.”
“We all know that’s where my true strength lies—in serving. I’ll still help out in the back, but I want to help serve too.”
Colt hadn’t been in the room, but he came walking down the stairs and did a double take when he saw me. “I thought you were taking the night off.”
“Changed my mind.”
He took a few steps toward me and placed his hand on my uninjured arm. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?”
“Yeah,” I said softly, staring up into his worried eyes. “I need to keep busy.”
“Mags, about this afternoon . . .” He stopped and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing several times. When he spoke, his voice broke. “I want to tell you, but I can’t.”
“I know,” I said. I’d thought about it off and on all day. If the contents of the safety deposit box had something to do with the woman he’d lost—the only reason I could think of for him to stay silent—I understood his need to protect her. Just like I’d protected him from Owen. I still didn’t one hundred percent trust him, but I understood.
He gave me a small nod. “I don’t want to lose you, Maggie. After I see this through, I’ll tell you everything.”
He started to pull away, but I grabbed his wrist. “After you see what through? You’re not talking about this mess with Daddy, are you?”
I was sure he wasn’t going to answer, so I was surprised by the slight shake of his head. “No.”
“I think I understand,” I said, “but we won’t work if you have some huge secret hanging over you.”
Defeat filled his eyes, and he started to pull away, but I dug my fingers deeper into his flesh.
“But I’m willing to wait. I’m willing to give you some time to see it through, but I won’t wait forever, Colt.”
“That’s more than I can ask for.”
“Until then, we need to just be friends. We make pretty good friends, don’t you think?”
A sad smile lifted his lips. “Yeah. We do. Now let’s get to work.”
It was a good thing I’d decided to come in—a couple people who were supposed to help from the culinary school had come down with food poisoning after making a bad batch of oysters earlier that morning, so now Tilly was short-staffed.
We got everything loaded into the vans, and Tilly filled me in on the menu for the night—a three-course meal consisting of a house salad, roasted rosemary potatoes and chicken with asparagus, and cheesecake for dessert.
“Are you sure you’re up to serving tonight?” Tilly asked with a worried glance.
“Are you worried I’ll stir up trouble?” I asked with a sly grin.
“Well . . .” She shook her head, and I already knew she’d cave. “Your momma would be having a fit right about now.”
I laughed. “All the more reason to do it, don’t you think?”
“That’s my girl.”
We didn’t have to drive far. The dinner was being held in one of the banquet rooms at The Factory. Our task was to make the industrial-looking space cozier and more inviting. Once we reached the location, we quickly got the tables set up and decorated with cut flower centerpieces and candles. Then Colt and another part-time employee began setting up bars at opposite ends of the hall.
A half hour before the event, I told Tilly I was going to light candles. Instead, I made a beeline for Colt.
“I’m surprised you didn’t mention the new alarm system,” he said.
“What alarm system?”
“Me and a buddy of mine set up an alarm system at your momma’s house this afternoon.” He gave me a sheepish look. “I know I should have asked permission first, but you were upset and needed space . . .”
“I was pretty preoccupied,” I managed to choke out. “I guess I didn’t notice. Wouldn’t I have set off the alarm?”
“No. It’s not turned on yet.” He pulled out his phone and opened an app. “Everything’s digital. There are sensors on the doors and motion detectors inside. Here. I’ll turn it on now.” He pushed some numbers on the key pad and showed me the screen. “When we finish, I’ll download the app onto your phone and show you how to work it.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, nearly speechless. “Thank you.”
A warm expression filled his eyes. “Gotta keep you safe, Mags.”
“Tell me what you know about Tripp Tucker,” I said.
He glanced up in surprise. “Tripp Tucker?” A knowing look washed over his face. “He’s gonna be here tonight, isn’t he? That’s why you really came.”
“What do you know about him?”
Colt pulled two bottles of vodka from a box. “I know he had a hit album, or more accurately three hits on his album, and his second album sold like dog shit. He didn’t take it well and blamed your father when he lost his money.”
“Did you know about his fiancée’s murder before Tilly mentioned it?”
“I’d heard rumors, but I don’t know the details. I know Tilly said she was stabbed.”
“Colt. I think she was killed by the serial killer.”
“I considered it too, but what about the arrest?”
“What if he was falsely accused? You of all people know that’s possible. They caught a man who tried to hawk
her engagement ring at a Nashville pawn shop two years after she died. It doesn’t mean he killed her.”
A grim look washed over his face.
“I think she was victim number two,” I pressed. “Seventeen years ago. Found outside of Jackson, Tennessee.” I moved closer. “Jackson.”
His eyes flew wide. “The Jackson Project.” He glanced toward the still-empty guests-of-honor table. “What do you hope to do tonight?”
“Talk to Tripp. Find out what he knows.”
He started to protest, then stopped. “For God’s sake, Maggie, be careful.”
“Tripp didn’t kill her.”
“You don’t know that. He hated your father for losing his money and for sleeping with his fiancée. What if you’re waking a sleeping bear?”
I leaned closer and whispered, “If Tripp Tucker is the serial killer, then the sleeping bear has already been awakened. Besides, we’re in a public place. He won’t do anything here.”
“No. But he might do something horrible later.” He turned even more serious. “This isn’t a game, Maggie. When was the last time you heard from the killer?”
“Monday. Just the necklace and flower. No texts. Nothing since.”
He studied me for a moment. “Just be careful. Please.”
I nodded, then flicked the lighter in my hand. “I told Tilly I was lighting candles. I need to get to work.”
Tonight’s dinner was being held to honor people who’d helped a popular children’s music charity over the previous year. Tripp wasn’t the only one who was being honored, which would hopefully make it easier to talk to him.
Once all the candles had been lit, I headed to the kitchen and helped Tilly and the others plate the salads.
I convinced one of the servers to let me serve the section that included the table for the guests of honor, and she was more than willing to comply since one of the honorees was notoriously cranky.
Tonight, Melisandre Bowers, the widow of country music legend Rock Bowers, was in top form. “The lettuce in this salad is wilted,” she said as I set the bowl in front of her.
Curtain Call: Magnolia Steele Mystery #4 Page 16
